The step he took
A man stands in rain, looking to the midnight sky and the crescent moo above. As he stands and stares to the sky he feels the water run down his face and mutters a few words to himself, not aloud but not in silence.
He looks about to see if the trees in the woods in which he stands should wave and hiss in the wind of the storm. And so he stands by himself, alone with himself, to whisper himself closer to insanity...and should he wonder with whom he should speak...he is his only option.
So alone he stands in the sun, as it burns his face to hell...as closer and closer the afternoon breeze should cool his cheeks...awaiting further the season in which he is to die alone as he should always be. And as he stands and feels the heat, he thinks of what should and shouldn't be. But yet with wisdom he knows its true as he looks down toward the ground and takes a single step.
A man stands in a field after days of walking, watching the brown veins of leaves as they blow in the wind past his face. How obvious it is to see the small changes that are made as seasons change and time takes its constant travel forward. The fact that time in itself moves forward never backward, on a straight line that never deviates its course...
And nor should he...
A man walks forward, staring in himself and out ahead as the winter wind stabs his cheeks like daggers being thrown at him by a silent assailant watching and plotting his death with every step. A torture he is not willing to bear but still he walks fighting it all...why did it take all this time for him to see that the only things he wished was that step...
Was that crescent moon in the winds of spring, that burning sun in the heat of summer, those browning leaves in the cool of fall, that last dying step of himself in winter!